


What's A Little Murder Between Friends?

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [17]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Evil Peter Parker, M/M, No Sex, POV Alternating, POV Peter Parker, POV Wade Wilson, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Pre-Slash, Serial Killers, Spideypool Bingo 2020, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 20:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Spideypool Bingo prompt: [Villains AU]Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: [Can Only Move The Eyes]Peter Parker picks up a hitchhiker.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813951
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	What's A Little Murder Between Friends?

He’d been driving for about an hour. He had the radio on, just a faint mumble that was lost under the crackle of thunder. Fat raindrops smacked the windscreen, sliding down like tears. He kept his wipers on, grimly squinting through the mist. He wasn’t worried about crashing — he had excellent reflexes. Even so, he’d be glad when he got there.

Other cars passed him, indistinct smears of colour that dashed by the edge of his vision. He paid them no mind but as he roared along on the wet road, he saw a figure standing on the shoulder. He caught nothing more than a flash of a red jacket and black pants. But they were holding their arm aloft. And if he’d taken a second glance, he would have bet that their thumb was stuck out. The universal sign for a hitchhiker.

Peter let the car slow to a crawl and then a stop. He kept the engine running but released the catch of the passenger side’s door, pushing it open. He’d hitchhiked in the past. It’s just something you do when you don’t have a ride or cash. He hadn’t checked to see if the hitchhiker had a bag. If they asked to stick it in the trunk, he’d refuse.

The guy peered through the window and Peter peered back. Through the rain, he couldn’t see much, but the man was clearly bald. He carried a big gym bag. There was something wrong with his face, some sort of disfigurement, but Peter didn’t care. They all look the same in the end. 

“Where are you headed?” Peter yelled over the roar of the rain. The guy pointed vaguely into the distance. Same direction Peter was headed.

* * *

The guy got in and Peter looked at him. Yeah, a disfigured, scarred face. Flushed pink skin and a bald head that glinted under the car’s overhead light. He was powerfully built, a thick, muscled neck and broad shoulders. And he was sodden, his clothes sticking to him and raindrops running down his cheeks and throat. He was in his early forties if he had to guess. A few years older than Peter. He tried not to stare. He was more interested in the large duffel bag. Could have weapons in there — this guy looked like the type. The man buckled himself in, closed the door behind him. His duffel bag sat securely on his lap.

“Nice weather, huh?” the guy said, locking the passenger door behind him. Good. That would make things easier.

“It’s hell,” Peter muttered, as they began driving away. He’d never liked the cold or the wet. It made him want to curl up in a crawlspace. Somewhere dry and enclosed.

He should probably thaw. Be a bit more hospitable. Might look weird if he remained stony-faced throughout the ride. “So, have you been travelling for long?” he said, approaching an amiable tone.

“I’m just trying to head out of town. Haven’t got any plans,” the guy said. He had a rather pleasant voice. Smooth, kind of breathy. A bit odd, considering his size and appearance. Certainly, Peter had heard more grating voices in his life. “I like your tattoo.”

“Oh, thanks,” Peter said, glancing down at it. His arms were bare and the thick black spiderweb stretched across the length of his slim, pale arm, winding around it. A heavy, black spider with white eyes and chunky, furry legs squatted on his bicep, glaring malevolently into the distance. 

“Not the sort of thing a guy like you would have.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “What’s a guy like me?”

“Preppy.”

He cracked a smile. “Preppy, huh? Am I preppy, really?”

“Nice hair, white teeth, short-sleeved shirt. Yeah. Preppy.”

“I get told I have a babyface. I get asked for ID wherever I go.”

“I can imagine. How old are you?”

Peter smiled to himself. “Guess.”

“Twenty..six?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“No way,” the guy said and Peter grinned wider. “You’re shitting me? How do you look so good? You’re drop-dead gorgeous! I just look drop-dead and I’m only a bit older than you.”

“Wear sunscreen, plenty of water, vitamins, daily exercise and vegetables. Sorry, there’s no juicy secret. I don’t bathe in the blood of virgins or anything.” To be fair, he’d only tried that once.

“Surely you must be doing somethin’?”

Peter paused, pursing his lips. “I do eat a lot of red meat. I know the nutritionists say you shouldn’t, but I think it’s made me stronger.”

“Well, it clearly is working. You look great,” the guy said, raking his eyes appreciatively over Peter. Oh. Peter knew that look. He kind of admired this hideous, ravaged-looking creature for being so blatant about his leering. And it was nice to get a compliment.

“Thanks. Oh, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Wade. Wade Wilson.”

Peter took one hand off the wheel, and they shook on it. “Ben,” he said, as Wade looked at him expectantly.

“Have you ever picked up a hitchhiker before?”

“Oh yeah, tons of times,” None of them ever made it to their destination. “Do you go hitchhiking much?”

“Sometimes, yeah. When I have to. You meet a lot of interesting people on the road.”

“You do,” Peter agreed, recalling frightened eyes reflected in a rearview mirror. “I have.”

* * *

_Harry had been beautiful. Brown curls, golden, sun-kissed skin and the confident swagger of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He’d missed his taxi and his phone had died unexpectedly but they were temporary setbacks. He’d climbed in Peter’s car, throwing his briefcase on the back seat and there had been no hesitation. A temporary setback. People like Harry see others as mere tools, conduits to carry out his orders. They aren't people to him. It’s not that he hates them, he simply doesn’t have enough room in his brain to care about their trifling, little worries._

He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. Wade was shaping up to be a good candidate. And Peter was _so_ hungry.

* * *

He snapped back to the present. The wheel was steady under his hands and the road was empty.

Wade was fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the dashboard, glancing out of the window every few seconds. Peter wondered if he was an addict. That would explain the random twitches.

“I like this,” Wade said loudly, obnoxiously, poking at the charm hanging from the rearview mirror. His voice was too loud for the car. Peter wondered if it was due to nerves or if he was trying to drown something out. Maybe he didn’t like the rain.

The charm was a golden spider with long, arching legs. 

“Is it meant to be a particular breed or is it just random?”

 _“Latrodectus Mactan,_ ” Peter said and then, “Black widow.”

“Oh, nice. Black widow. Speaking of, what do you think of, uh, Black Widow of The Avengers?”

Peter swallowed, flipped his gaze back to the road. His peripheral vision showed Wade’s gloved finger flick the spider gently, sending it swinging on its chain. “I don’t like The Avengers. I don’t like heroes. Or vigilantes.”

“Really? You don’t like any? But what about Spider-Man? Thought you’d like him, you’re both arachnid fans!”

“Spider-Man died. Ten years ago. It was on the news, didn’t you hear?”

“I heard,” Wade said. He wiggled in his seat, getting comfortable. “But I don’t think he’s dead.”

Peter had no answer to that. But his spider-sense hadn’t flared up so he wasn’t too worried by the conversation. Even so, probably better to change topics.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” He threw a distraction at him. People loved to talk about themselves, even if they tried to pretend that they didn’t.

“Is it about the scars?”

Peter chuckled. “Yeah,” he admitted. Wade didn’t seem offended.

“Cancer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Hey, Ben, do me a favour?”

Peter considered that. A last wish? He could grant it, if it wasn’t too unreasonable. It seemed like a nice thing to do, and Wade was going to be a big help to Peter later on. “Sure.”

“Don’t get cancer,” Wade said and Peter was so stunned, he broke into giggles.

As the laughter cleared like fog, Peter let the last hiccups break out of his chest before settling back in his seat, a smile still playing on his lips. “I won’t. I mean, I’ll try.”

“I always thought I’d die young, leave a pretty corpse. Now, I’m forty-three with a face that looks like a Hallowe’en mask.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, I think you’ve still got time,” Peter told him. Wade made a sound of puzzlement. Peter clarified. “To die pretty.”

Wade shifted closer, just a little. Soaked cotton jacket, too thin to offer any protection in this weather. And heavy jeans. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you, Benny-boy? A little charmer.”

“I’m the last of a dying breed,” Peter said drily.

“Yeah,” Wade said, and his voice rang on an odd note. “You are.”

* * *

“The rain’s letting up,” Wade said at some point. They’d lapsed into silence, but it had been calm, blissful. Peter liked it. Having a body seated beside him, those little twitches and tics that reminded him he wasn’t alone right now. He was amongst friends, even if it wouldn’t be for very long.

“Hey, what’s that sound? Sort of a — thumping,” Wade said suddenly. He sat forward, like a puppy that heard its owner walk through the front door. Adorable but Peter had no time to appreciate it. Inwardly, he was panicking. Was it — no, he couldn’t be. Peter had been so sure.

“I think it might be your trunk door,” Wade said and _shit, this couldn’t be happening._ “Park on the side of the road and I can take a look at it. I’m pretty handy.”

In the span of a few seconds, he tried to figure out a game plan. He honestly thought he had more time. He was strong but he preferred methods that didn’t leave a mess. He didn’t want to bludgeon Wade. He flicked a hateful gaze sideways at that big, pink face. Couldn’t knot his fingers in a mop of hair and use it to slam his head into the dashboard. Anything he did, he’d be touching that strange, scarred flesh. But he wanted more time. Wanted a longer conversation, wanted to ask him questions. He hadn’t heard Wade laugh. Wade had made _him_ laugh, it was only fair that Peter returned the favour. He was going to get Wade to make all sorts of pretty sounds for him, but laughter wasn’t something Peter was usually able to scrape out of a passenger’s vocal cords. He missed it. 

He couldn’t stall any longer. He reluctantly parked and turned to Wade with a forced smile.

"I'd better go see if the trunk is okay."

"I can do it," Wade offered. "No point in both of us getting wet. Look at me, I'm already a drowned rat!"

"No! No thank you. I'd like to stretch my legs. You stay here with the heater, keep toasty."

As he hopped out of the car, he shivered in the cold. Jeans and a t-shirt, not great for this weather. The rain had mostly stopped but he felt lone drops hit his shoulder blades, his arm. He plodded around to the back of the car. Damm, the trunk door was open. He poked inside, did a quick check. Good. Everything was still there. He wasn’t sure how the lock had come loose but the car was old, it was bound to happen. He patted his hands around the interior, merely a way to soothe his frazzled nerves. Everything was as it should be. He was fine.

“Did you get fixed?”

Peter straightened so hard his head hit the door. He slammed it closed and turned, hiding it with his body. “Yup. You were right, the door came open. I guess the lock is busted.”

“Want me to take a look under the hood?” Wade said, waggling his non-existent eyebrows. “Two heads are better than one.”

“Way ahead of you,” Peter muttered. He smiled. “I think it’s okay for now. We should get going, it’ll be dark soon.”

“Aw, you scared of the dark? Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.”

He watched Wade swagger back to the passenger seat and Peter could breathe again. He knew it was impossible to see the trunk’s contents from the front seats. But he still didn’t trust Wade. It bothered him that his spider-sense hadn’t alerted him to Wade’s presence. But his powers were rather hit-and-miss, these days.

He shouldn’t hesitate. He should just get on with it. Sure, it was nice to have Wade around, enjoy a bit of company. But if he killed him, Wade would be with him forever. 

Peter risked returning to the trunk one more time. He needed to gather his courage and a snack would help.

“Hey, Ben, I think the radio is — holy shit!”

Peter wiped his mouth and _pounced._

* * *

Wade awoke and something told him it was several hours later. The sky was black, a big vague patch of darkness. All he saw was the road ahead. It seemed to unfurl in front of them like some giant beast’s tongue.

He tried to move his head but he was stuck fast. All he could do was blink, and stare. Look up, down, left, right. His body (from what he could see) was covered in a whitish-grey substance. It clung to him, felt sticky where it touched his bare neck and face. It hung in tufts like cotton candy.

Ben was still sat beside him, resolutely staring at the road. Hands at ten and two on the wheel. 

“Did you jizz on me?” Wade said and was annoyed by the weak croak of his voice.

He’d startled him. That much was clear.

“You’re alive,” Ben gasped. Wade wished he could turn his head properly to face him.

“People normally say _you’re awake._ But then, you ain’t normal, people, are you?”

"You're one to talk about normal! You're clearly a mutant! I stabbed you and now you're sitting there, talking to me! You should have told me you were a mutant!"

"Well, you should have told _me_ you were gonna kill me! Is Ben even your real name? And is your surname Dover?"

"Ben is my fake name. My real name is Peter," said Peter with a tolerance that normally took Wade's peers years to learn. He was a handful — or so he was told. "Not that any of that matters, seeing how you're now my prisoner."

"You mummified me. Can't believe that. You suck!"

He felt Peter's hand on his neck, and then, a pressure lifted and he could turn his head. He was still stuck, but at least he could look the bastard right in his stupid, Bambi-like eyes now. "So, do you just go up and down the country, killing people and covering them in those weird, grey gunk? Or am I your first?"

"What can I say? It's a hobby. Keeps me sane on the road," Peter said, tapping the side of his head. 

"Yeah, you're not sane. You're crazy. Why are the pretty ones always insane?"

Their eyes met in the mirror. "You think I'm pretty?"

"Aw, shut up. Anyway, that mummy in the trunk. You just gonna keep him there?"

"No. I plan to feed on him."

"Feed…? Wait, you're a cannibal? That's — okay, your crazy rating has gone to a full one hundred. Before, you were, like, at sixty per cent. Why you gotta eat people, dude? Burgers are cheap and plentiful. And delicious."

Peter said nothing. He continued driving at ten and two. Wade glanced down at the ugly tattoo on his arm. 

"It's a spider thing. Isn't it? That's why you eat them. Oh shit, I'm so stupid. This is webbing, this gunk you splooged all over me. You're some creepy spider-themed serial killer? Are you—" _No, it couldn't be._ "Are you Spider-Man?"

At Peter's nod, Wade squealed. "O.M.G. I was your biggest fan! I had your action figures, your posters! I had a Spidey alarm clock. But you disappeared! Everybody said you were dead."

Peter shrugged. 

"Okay, not dead. Just decided to up and become a killer instead. Samesies. What's that? You don't believe me? You never took a look in my bag, did you?" 

Peter took his eyes off the road for just a second. "Your bag is in the backseat. If I open it, what would I find?"

"A head," Wade said. "Not a head of lettuce. Literally, a guy's head. I was paid to waste him and bring back the head as proof."

"Proof of what? Are you a hitman?"

He puffed out his chest. "Yes! If you want somebody unalived, I'm your man. I charge extra for torture. You're not the only one in this car with a high body count, Spidey."

"Huh. I don't normally run into people like me."

"Mood. The question is — what are ya gonna do? You can't kill me. I'll just come back to life. You gonna let me go?"

Peter shot him a sideways glance. Big eye, pretty smile. "Actually, I was thinking I might keep you."

"It's your call," Wade said lightly but his heart pounded. He'd never believed in destiny but he felt very glad to have accepted the ride. 


End file.
